


do you believe in happy endings?

by sweetautumnwine



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Everybody Lives, Fairy Tale Elements, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Nobody is Dead, Season 5 Spoilers, Self-Indulgent, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23874601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetautumnwine/pseuds/sweetautumnwine
Summary: "Night is falling. The temperature is dropping. Arthur is dying."Merlin doesn't expect it to end like this: Arthur, weak and listless; himself, utterly powerless. But that doesn't change reality. Merlin soon finds himself compelled to make a confession, even if it's the last thing Arthur hears.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 208





	do you believe in happy endings?

Even the trees seem somber, their branches still and warped against the dust-gray sky. Night is falling. The temperature is dropping. Arthur is dying.

Merlin cradles Arthur after laying him down to rest against a sturdy oak. His hair is damp with fever-sweat, his neck hot to the touch. But Merlin doesn’t flinch, just dabs his forehead with a spare piece of cloth and tries to conceal his trembling hands, from Arthur and from himself.

In the growing silence of dusk, Merlin feels his chest tighten with fear. The future has always felt like a promise and a curse, something guaranteed without choice, but these moments, when Arthur wheezes and claws at the dirt with no strength left in his hands, feel beyond the scope of fate. This, Merlin thinks, is unintended, unforeseen, and unforgivable.

When Arthur tries to adjust his position, he grunts, straining against the bonds that are his own failing limbs. Merlin is quick to react, chasing away the temptation of his own slumber with adrenaline, panic, and shreds of hope alone. He crawls to Arthur, hefts him up by the waist, and smooths back his hair, revealing the pallor of his face and the intensity of the shadows that age him in the dark.

“Merlin,” Arthur croaks. His eyes remain closed, and through cracked, parched lips, his breathing is shallow. Limply, he raises a hand, but his pursuit is blind.

But Merlin catches it before it can fall, disregarding the clamminess of his palm and the lack of animation. “I’m here.”

“I’m going to die.”

It isn’t a question, but Merlin grits his teeth when he responds. “Don’t talk like that, Arthur. I’m going to do what I can to save you. I promise.”

Now, Arthur forces his eyes open. Surrounded by sallow skin, the blue of his irises are stark and pale. “What exactly can you do, Merlin? Carry me to Gaius on your back? You aren’t a Thoroughbred. You’re barely a servant.”

“I am so much more than that,” Merlin snaps.

When Arthur’s eyes shift to him, Merlin stiffens. Before he can offer a flimsy excuse, Arthur sighs, letting his head fall back against the bark. “I know. You are.”

“Sorry?” Merlin blurts. He sits back, a foot or so away from Arthur, brows pinched.

Groaning, Arthur rolls his eyes, then stifles a cough in his chest before speaking. “You’ve always been much more than my servant, Merlin. There are times I could have been kinder to you, when I should have listened to you more.”

“Arthur—”

“Let me finish,” Arthur says. Then, softly, he adds. “Please. Merlin, I’ve trusted you with my life, I’ve sought your advice, and I’ve trusted you more than anyone in this world. If I had to put a name to it, and as much as it pains me to say it, I’d have to say you’re my best friend.”

Stunned by this confession, Merlin sinks back onto his heels. He only breaks away from his reverie when Arthur coughs, violently, heaving his upper body forward with the force of it. Merlin is there, kneeling beside him, one hand spread against his spine and the other against his chest, guiding him to sit upright.

In these moments, Merlin feels the knot of dread tighten in his chest. Arthur, with his brazen grin and knows-no-fear stare; Arthur, who plunges forth into the unknown at risk of his own life to save a friend, a stranger, a servant; Arthur, who grieves for the lives lost due to violence and negligence, who leads with compassion and courage; Arthur, whose life is dwindling, flickering like a candle flame confined without air, dying in the silence of the night. Merlin hates to view him like this when he knows just how bold and strong Arthur is, but he knows, too, that there is very little he can do, with or without his magic, to save him.

When the fit subsides, Arthur sucks in as deep a breath as he can muster before turning his face toward Merlin. He frowns. “Merlin, you’re crying.”

Merlin reaches for his own cheek in a subtle daze, fingertips sweeping beneath his left eye and coming away damp. He stares at the tears collected along the grooves of his fingertips and laughs, the sound short and sharp. “I guess I am. Not very surprising, is it? I’m not very good at much of anything, and I don’t even know if there’s anything I  _ can _ do to help. After all this time, after all I’ve learned, I can’t even save your life.”

Arthur’s face falls then, that sly twist of his lips sinking into a somber frown. “Merlin, you’ve done all that I asked and then some. I know you have. There’s nothing more—”

“No!” Merlin speaks from his gut, feeling the word tear itself from his throat. “No. I know… There has to be something…”

“Your loyalty is adorable, Merlin,” Arthur says, leaning back his head and closing his eyes. Sweat gathers on his brow and drips down to his jaw. “But you sound delusional.”

Merlin shakes his head, wrestling with himself. The line between honesty and security has always been difficult to tread. More often than not, Merlin has erred on the side of caution, driven by fear to conceal the deepest, innate parts of himself, that which contributed to his sense of self. When it comes to Arthur, Merlin has been afraid more than he has felt safe. This has never been the fault of Arthur; danger seems to wait for him, preying on the chinks in his armor, knowing his destiny more clearly than Arthur ever did.

It isn’t that Merlin has feared for himself, though the threat of death by fire at Arthur’s order has plagued his nightmares more than once. Rather, Merlin has made himself sick with worry at the thought that, upon learning of his magic, Arthur would be put in more danger than ever before, earning the wrath of those who know of Emrys, of the great sorcerer and his allegiance to the king. Merlin can’t stomach the thought of his secret being used against Arthur, of his magic being the cause of Arthur’s demise.

And yet, here Arthur sits, slowly succumbing to poison that cannot be cured by mundane means. During Arthur’s unconscious spells, Merlin has tried to coax the poison from Arthur’s veins, to evaporate it into nothingness, to combat it with light and hope and love and all the other brilliant things Merlin has ever tied into his magic. Nothing has worked.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, his voice breaking the silence like a stone shattering glass. “Arthur, I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, Merlin, you’re making me uneasy.”

“No, I won’t,” Merlin says. The words come thick and heavy over his tongue, drenched in the weight of lies and falsehoods that have accumulated over the years. “Because you don’t even know what I’m apologizing for, and I need… I need you to know the truth.”

Though Arthur furrows his brow, he doesn’t speak, just opens his eyes and nods once, slowly, encouraging Merlin to speak.

Merlin breathes in until his lungs ache. His tongue seems to swell against his teeth, bidding him to abandon this quest and submit to pensive silence, to keep the truth hidden in a grave of its own. He can feel his pulse under his skin, racing through his veins and into the dirt beneath his legs. He wonders how deep the echo goes.

He imagines it reaching Camelot and beyond, this sound of his heart beating like a madman in love—and that, of course, is part of the problem. For all the times he’s wanted to tell Arthur the truth, to reveal that hidden part of himself so closely tied to his role and his purpose, there have been equal numbers of opportunities for Merlin to confess how he feels. And always, always, no matter the pain it wrought or the aches it invoked, Merlin has held his tongue.

Now, as Arthur sweats and moans and fights an unwinnable battle, Merlin feels something fall away, some shred of restraint and competence that leaves him naked and free. When he opens his mouth, fresh tears prick his eyes, but he cannot stop himself.

“I have magic,” Merlin blurts. “I have magic, I’ve always had it, and I’ve used it for your benefit, to build a better Camelot, to see your dreams realized. I’ve only used it for you.”

What follows this confession is a cannibalistic silence that burrows deep into Merlin’s skull until all he can hear is the rapid thrum of his heartbeat, flittering like a caged bird desperate for escape. He holds his breath and finds it difficult to keep his eyes on Arthur. Only when he lets his gaze fall to the earth between them does Arthur finally speak, and he does so with great care and deliberation.

“I know.”

The simple statement causes a flash of icy shock to course through Merlin’s body, rendering him still and stiff. Still, he manages to lift his chin, searching for answers in Arthur’s eyes. “You… know?”

With a heavy sigh, Arthur nods, pinching his brows and biting his lip when the motion proves to be painful. “I’ve known for a while. Or at least, I’ve suspected.”

“For how long?” Merlin’s voice sounds distant, detached. The words he speaks are free-born and unhindered, driven by curiosity and desperation.

Arthur’s face puckers further as he considers it. “Years. If I had to pick a moment, it was when Lancelot first arrived in Camelot.”

Merlin grimaces. “The forged seal. I don’t know why I thought that would work.”

“What? No,” Arthur says, cracking open an eye to scowl. “I didn’t know that was your work, as well.”

“Oh. Well, we don’t have to dwell on it now.”

“What I was referring to was when Lancelot defeated the griffin,” Arthur says, disregarding Merlin’s aside. “Or, rather, when  _ you _ did.”

Paling, Merlin pictures the scene in his head. It had been a worrisome night, sticky with sweat and fear: the knights of Camelot, riding out to face a foe unlike any other, and Lancelot, a lone and banished man determined to uphold his values, racing to greet their certain deaths. And then, finding the knights incapacitated, lying on the ground as though tossed aside like playthings, Merlin yanked at something deep within him, summoning up the magical might to cast an enchantment stronger than any he’d ever attempted.

Merlin’s murmured words, spoken with emphasis and speed to rival the clash of beast and man. The flash of blue light surrounding the top of Lancelot’s spear. The impact, a scatter of lightning, and the roar of the defeated creature as it collapsed.

Shortly after, Merlin recalls, Arthur arose, spotting Lancelot astride his steed while the griffin lay, immobile, at his side. Merlin had been careful to avoid detection, darting behind a nearby rock formation and waiting for a moment to flee. At least, he thought he had been.

“I heard you, Merlin,” Arthur says, as though sensing Merlin’s frantic thoughts. “When you cast the spell. I supposed it roused me, hearing you speak such a foreign tongue, when I hardly believed you were fluent in your own language to begin with.”

Merlin wants to laugh and forces air from his lungs in a parody. It sounds like he’s been punched in the chest. “And I’ve worked so hard to keep it hidden all these years when you could have just told me you knew.”

“You could have told me yourself,” Arthur counters. “Then we’d have no secrets between us, and perhaps I wouldn’t be lying here if that were the case.”

But Merlin shakes his head. “That’s not fair, Arthur.”

“I never said I was fair.”

“But you are,” Merlin says, crawling closer to him. “You are fair and just and kind. You are a good king, the likes of which Camelot has never seen before. You are a noble man, a brave fighter, and a compassionate leader. And that is just part of why, all this time, I—”

He chokes. It’s as if the air in his lungs has decided to set up a permanent residence there, lingering well below the opening of his throat.

As he struggles to compose himself, Arthur rolls back his shoulders and opens both eyes. Though his expression remains pained, his eyes hold an inquisitive light. “What is it, Merlin? You won’t offend me. And even if you did, there isn’t much to lose at this point. Air out your grievances. I don’t mind.”

Merlin bites down on his lip the moment he feels it begin to tremble. Arthur’s watchful gaze weighs him down, holds him in place, but he fights the sensation and reaches, tentatively, to take Arthur’s hand in both of his. He expects Arthur to resist, even with the little strength he has left, but there is no such rejection, just silent appraisal and a surprising level of patience.

With a tremulous inhale, Merlin bows his head and draws Arthur’s hand close to his lips, not quite near enough to kiss. “It took me a long time to realize what it means to be loyal, what it means to have your destiny tied to another. I fought it at first. I thought you were spoiled and privileged and crass and ignorant. But it didn’t take long to realize that I was the ignorant one—at least in some ways because much of the time, you really can be quite a prat—”

“Merlin—”

“—and I didn’t think it would be right to tell you this. I didn’t want to. I thought it would be selfish of me. But here I am, here you are, and I think it’s only right.”

Merlin cuts himself off, raising Arthur’s hand so that his knuckles graze his forehead. Arthur offers no resistance. He is compliant. This does not give Merlin hope. Instead, it fills him with the deepest despair he has ever felt. Arthur is losing his will as well as his strength. There is no telling how much time he has left or which breath will be his last.

Knowing this, Merlin steels himself, tightening his hold on Arthur’s hand before lifting his head and pressing his lips to Arthur’s fingers. The act is delicate, tender even, but does not elicit any notable response from Arthur.

“I’m sorry that I’m doing this now, I feel you ought to know, for my sake as well as yours,” Merlin says. “Arthur Pendragon, I have loved you for many years, and I will love you for thousands more. In your absence, I know that this feeling will only grow stronger, and I don’t think I could bear the loneliness without you knowing. Please, Arthur, forgive me.”

Then, he is weeping, face parallel with the earth. The tears fall without sound, but they craft divots in the soil where they land. His face is streaked red with them, and his hands, still gripping Arthur’s, shudder without weakening as he awaits Arthur’s response.

There is silence. As Merlin recovers from the blow-back, fear clambers up his back and slinks over his shoulders like a cape made of shadows, clinging to his skin and seeping into him, blackening his hope and love and light. He jolts, lifting his head with a gasp, only to find Arthur staring at him, mouth slightly agape, his gaze soft and almost mystified.

“Arthur?” Merlin says, lowering his hands. “Are you all right?”

Arthur looks down at their hands, then back up at Merlin’s face, and nods. “I wasn’t expecting that, Merlin. I really wasn’t.”

A narrow, hollow feeling settles in Merlin’s stomach as he nods once. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, not really sure why you’re apologizing and asking forgiveness, either,” Arthur says, frowning. “It’s not like you confessed to a murder, Merlin.”

“I know, but—” Merlin says, but finds the words difficult to muster.  _ But loving you is impossible and difficult and painful _ , he thinks.  _ Loving you is the best thing I’ve known, and the worst. _ “But I suppose I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Arthur’s scowl deepens, twisting his face into something familiar. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“It’s not like… I mean…” Merlin stumbles, squeezing Arthur’s hand as he tries to think. “What good does it do to tell you?”

Clicking his tongue, Arthur shakes his head and lifts his hand to Merlin’s cheek. With some difficulty, he wipes away Merlin’s tears with his knuckles before planting his palm atop his head, ruffling his hair. “After all these years of working for me, Merlin, you’d think you’d learn a thing or two.”

Merlin blinks, his flighty emotions suppressed by the sudden weight of Arthur’s hand. “What do you mean?”

“I would think you would know that, before making a judgment of your own, you should ask me for my thoughts,” Arthur says, regaining that notorious, pompous air about him. It looks strange with his dark circles and pale face, but it suits him all the same. “Not to mention, Merlin, I’m a bit hurt that you haven’t improved your ability to read me at all. What’s the point of all the time we’ve spent together if you can’t even glean that much?”

As Arthur roughly tousles Merlin’s hair, Merlin finds himself drifting. Arthur’s words sound sane, sound reasonable, but when he considers them further, they seem to imply something far beyond the realm of truth and reality.

Merlin rests his hands on the dirt between them, grinding his palms into the tear-speckled soil. He laughs, but it sounds manic. “Arthur, you aren’t making sense. Is your fever getting worse? Should I look for some more yarrow?”

Arthur’s grip tightens, and he tugs Merlin forward with a sudden burst of strength. Merlin, clumsy as ever, manages to catch himself before his mouth fills with dirt, but when he looks up, he finds himself practically in Arthur’s lap, so close he can count the beads of sweat collecting along the bridge of his nose.

“Merlin, I don’t know how many times I’ve said this, but it remains true to this day,” Arthur says, shaking his head. But he looks down at Merlin with tenderness enough to daze him. “You’re an idiot.”

And then, with a gentle tug, Arthur draws Merlin to him, and kisses him, and kisses him again.

Once Merlin recovers from the initial shock, he adjusts his position to support himself better, cupping Arthur’s face and tracing with his thumb the lines of his jaw, his cheekbones, his ear. Arthur’s free hand rises to rest against Merlin’s back, weighing him down and bending his spine so that he presses against him, as though to say,  _ I need you closer to me _ .

Merlin doesn’t dare open his eyes. He prays the moment lasts until the end of eternity, sparing him from the agony of loss and lifetimes spent waiting. It is warm here, soft and sweet, and Merlin considers that this may be the closest to paradise he will ever come.

He hears Arthur gasp, and Merlin cannot refrain from opening his eyes. He fears the worst—a splash of blood dripping from Arthur’s mouth to his shirt; glazed, unseeing eyes; rotting, living flesh as Arthur moans for relief.

Instead, he finds himself bathed in light. Both of them, enveloped in this molten-morning glow, hold fast to one another as the golden light surrounds them, softly pulsating, glimmering like a night star come to rest on earthen soil. When Merlin looks to Arthur, he finds a look of wonder, not fear, impressed upon his features. Unable to help himself, Merlin ventures in for another kiss, unpolished and greedy but gentle nonetheless.

It is in the unknown that fear and wonder are found. For some time, Merlin has considered his magic—all magic—to be a source of fear, power, and paranoia. It can be abused, after all, and twisted for dark purposes. But it can be brilliant, too, used for faith and love and hope. It can inspire awe and even heal.

This golden light, Merlin realizes, is his. Before he can consider what to make of it, the light dims, fading into golden dust that scatters in the wind. He is left breathless, pulling away from Arthur to follow the motes with his eyes until the darkness of night is all that remains.

“That certainly was something,” Arthur says, groaning as he sits up against the tree. He cracks his neck, raises his arms to stretch, and yawns at an impeccable volume. “Does that happen every time you kiss someone, or am I special?”

“Uh,” Merlin says, rather brilliantly. “It’s never happened before.”

He doesn’t dwell on it for long. Arthur drags himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders and bending his knees. “You know, you could have found a softer place to rest. I don’t want to die in some Godforsaken forest with a rock as my pillow.”

“You were heavy. I could only drag you so far,” Merlin retorts. Then, he stills. His eyes drift up the trunk to find Arthur’s face, looming above him, looking flushed and full of life.

Merlin fumbles as he forces himself to his feet. He grabs at Arthur’s chain mail, wrenching it up to reveal his bare stomach.

“ Merlin , I appreciate the initiative, but I will  _ not _ be having  _ sex _ in the  _ woods _ —”

“You’re alive,” Merlin says. He scans Arthur’s flesh with his eyes and his hands, fingers fanning out along the place where his mortal wound had been not minutes before. “You’re  _ alive _ .”

When Merlin sinks to his knees, Arthur scoffs but quickly follows, kneeling beside him and placing a hand on his shoulder for comfort. “I didn’t think much of it, but I  _ am _ feeling much better.”

“How?” Merlin whispers. “How did this happen?”

Arthur purses his lips. “Well, and this may be a wild shot in the dark, but I’ve got a hunch that it has something to do with you and your magic.”

“But I didn’t  _ do _ anything,” Merlin says. He doesn’t know why it’s frustration and not pure relief he feels. “There was no spell, no enchantment, nothing that could have done it.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says. He speaks with such dignity and poise that Merlin is compelled to look him in the eye. “I think some things don’t need such concrete answers. I, for one, am grateful to no longer be dying. Why don’t we just focus on celebrating my miraculous recovery and call it a night?”

Merlin laughs. He has found that his life is filled with mysteries that are often left unsolved. He wonders if, one day in the distant future, he will learn their answers or if he will be left in want of explanation.

“You’re right,” Merlin says. “I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to hear you speaking like normal.”

Though Arthur frowns and nudges Merlin’s shoulder with a fist, his relief and delight are contagious. Soon, Merlin is curled up against Arthur’s side as the night deepens. They are both weary and long for rest, but sleep evades them. Merlin tacks on confessions, much to Arthur’s displeasure, but he listens intently, nodding along and asking questions when appropriate. He knows he will forget much of the conversation by morning, but this is Merlin’s life, the side that Arthur has never seen, and in spite of his minimal knowledge of the magical world, Arthur knows the amount of trust and devotion it takes to confide in him like this.

“I must admit, leading a united nation to unimaginable success and prosperity certainly sounds appealing,” Arthur says, peering wistfully up at the stars. “I would like to be remembered. I’d like to do something worth remembering.”

“If anyone deserves to be remembered, it’s you.”

“Glad to hear you admit it, Merlin.”

“The Great Dragon told me that the kingdom of Albion wouldn’t come to fruition for many, many years,” Merlin says, his voice soft. “And then you were dying, and I thought that was the end. I was starting to think I’d have to wait for your return to even get started.”   
  


“I can’t imagine uniting the kingdoms any time soon, Merlin,” Arthur says, curling his fingers around Merlin’s ear, brushing through his hair, “but we might as well set a good foundation. Together. And then, when the time comes, promise me you’ll be by my side, no matter what.”

“Even if you behave like a prat?”

With a sharp grin, Arthur tugs at Merlin’s hair before fluttering his fingers over his scalp. “Especially then.”

Merlin cups his hand over Arthur’s and presses their skin together, as if wishing to mold them into one. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

**Author's Note:**

> YEAH. I KNOW. TRUE LOVE'S KISS. MAGIC ENDING. DEUS EX MACHINA. Well it's MY self-indulgent fic and I wanted to be happy. I hope you enjoyed it, too!


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